Swallowing Stones Page 9

  10

  a few days later Michael took another driver’s test. This time he passed. At least he could put an end to that small web of deceit, although it brought him little relief. Other webs had already sprung up in its place.

  Since Darcy had returned from Ocean City, Michael had somehow managed to put their relationship on hold, talking with her only at the pool or on the phone. But it had been more than a week and she was growing impatient.

  When Darcy finally did confront him, it was just as he was leaving work. She was sitting on the hood of her father’s Taurus, sipping slowly from a bottle of natural spring water. Michael’s first thought was that the hood of the car had to be about five hundred degrees. He wondered how she could sit there so patiently, looking so deliciously cool in her red shorts and flowered top. Her sandaled feet hung over the side, exposing her bare thighs to the scorching metal. And she never even flinched, just lifted her hand and waved him over.

  Michael came to stand in front of her. Waiting. He knew what was coming. It had been coming for weeks.

  “You haven’t said anything about Kim Cohen’s party,” Darcy said, taking another swallow of water. “I just wondered if we were still going.” Her lips were stretched in a tight smile.

  When Michael didn’t say anything, she added, “It’s tonight, remember?”

  He felt the familiar thickness in his throat when he looked into her soft hazel eyes. “Darcy,” he began, his voice husky. But she held up her hand to stop him.

  “Wait, let me guess,” she said. “You’ve had a tough day at the pool and you’re too tired to party, right?” She slid off the hood of the car. The soles of her sandals smacked against the blacktop. “You’re starting to sound just like my dad.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “Fine. Tell me what it is, then.” She emptied the bottle and tossed it into the backseat of the car.

  Michael took her hand and held it for a minute, rubbing his thumb back and forth across her smooth skin. How could he tell her that he couldn’t be around her right now? He didn’t want to be around anyone. It was too difficult. Even being around Amy was hard.

  “It’s not you,” he said softly, staring down at the light freckles that covered the back of her hand. “It’s me. My life is really screwed up right now.”

  “It’s true, then,” Darcy said, snatching her hand away from him.

  Michael thought his heart had stopped. He wondered if she could have possibly found out he had killed a man. He shook his head, fighting to keep his face expressionless. “What’s true?”

  “That you’ve been getting it on with the slut.”

  It took him a few seconds to realize Darcy was talking about Amy. “I’m not ‘getting it on’ with anyone,” he said, trying to keep the mounting anger out of his voice.

  Darcy yanked open the door of her father’s car and climbed behind the wheel. “We saw you.”

  “Who saw me? What are you talking about?” Michael’s fingers gripped the top of the car door, keeping her from closing it. He knew he and Amy had never gone anywhere together. No one could have seen them.

  Darcy gave the car door a futile tug, but Michael held on. With an angry snort, she shoved the key in the ignition and started the engine. “Allison, Kim, and I were out driving around the night I got back. We saw you.”

  “Saw me what?”

  “Saw you turn down Amy’s street.”

  “So?” He wondered how Darcy or the others had known it was Amy’s street. “I was out walking. Big deal.”

  Darcy stared down at the steering wheel. Her long red hair fell forward, hiding her profile. “Do you think I don’t know something’s wrong, Mike? I mean, we hardly ever see each other anymore.”

  Then it came to him, like a rush of hot air from an open oven door. It all but slapped him in the face. “You were spying on me,” he said, his voice barely audible because the full weight of this fact hadn’t quite sunk in yet.

  “I had to know if you were seeing someone else.” Darcy lifted her chin defensively. “You sure as hell weren’t going to tell me.”

  “You and your friends were tailing me.” He shook his head in disbelief.

  Darcy had begun to cry. Tiny ribbons of mascara snaked down her cheeks.

  Michael reached down and turned off the ignition, then came around to the other side of the car and climbed into the passenger seat. Darcy’s hands were clamped around the steering wheel as if she were holding on for dear life, and all the while she kept up her steady hiccuplike sobbing.

  “It’s not what you think,” he told her. “Amy and I are just friends.”

  Darcy hiccupped another sob. “Oh, right.” She swatted at the brown streaks on her cheeks. “What kind of an idiot do you think I am?”

  “You don’t have to believe me,” he said. “I just wanted you to know. It has nothing to do with you. With us.”

  Darcy slit her eyes at him. “Get out of my car.”

  This was not how he wanted to leave her. In fact, he really wasn’t sure if he even wanted to leave her. Everything was so screwed up. Still, it had finally come to this. There was no way around it without confessing everything.

  For one brief moment he thought of telling her the truth. He tried to imagine how Darcy would react. Would she try to comfort him? Tell him Charlie Ward’s death was an accident? Would she tell the police?

  Would he be telling her the truth just to save her pride? And what would that buy him? He knew he couldn’t go on seeing her, anyway. Because this breakup wasn’t about Amy or Darcy; it was about carrying a secret so terrible that it shut him off from the rest of the world.

  Michael unfolded himself from the passenger seat and came to stand by her window as Darcy started up the engine again. “Why her?” she said as she began to back up. “That’s what I’d like to know. Is it because I said I wasn’t ready yet? You couldn’t wait?”

  “Darcy.” He almost moaned her name.

  “She’s such a pig.”

  Michael surprised himself by reaching into the slowly moving car and grabbing Darcy by the shoulder. Her foot hit the brake instinctively, and the car rocked back and forth. “Amy Ruggerio is one of the most decent human beings I know,” he said, clenching his teeth. “She’s been a good friend to me. A friend, period. You can believe whatever the hell you want. But nobody calls a friend of mine—any friend of mine—a pig.”

  Darcy gave him a look of pure hatred. Then she lowered her jaw to his hand and, before he had time to react, bit him as hard as she could. When Michael yanked his hand back, startled, Darcy stepped on the gas and peeled out of the parking lot, spitting tiny stones from beneath the tires of the Taurus.

  He stared down at his throbbing hand. She hadn’t broken the skin, but he had no doubt that she would have if he hadn’t pulled away when he did. He didn’t blame Darcy, although he was badly shaken by her behavior. After all, he had made a complete mess of things. He hadn’t been honest with her. What was she supposed to think?

  Still rubbing his sore hand, he watched her tear down the road. Then, because there was nothing else he could do about Darcy, he headed for the library. He still went almost every night to see if there were any new developments in the Ward case, especially now. He knew the police had continued going door-to-door the past week. So far they had not been on his street.

  It occurred to him, as he climbed the stone steps to the building, that he had wanted Darcy to be the one to end their relationship. He had let it come to that. As he reached for the doorknob he saw the deep tooth marks in his hand and the swollen, red skin. If he had stayed with her, he would have only hurt her even more in the end, when the truth finally came out.

  The end, he knew, would come when the authorities discovered that all their evidence pointed to one killer: Michael MacKenzie. And even though Joe was still convinced they were both practically in the clear, Michael knew better. He knew it was only a matter of time.

  11

  the night the police came
to the MacKenzies’ front door was the same night a renegade tornado tore the rooftops off fourteen units in the apartment complex behind the A&P. It peeled them right off like an old brown banana skin, and no one saw it coming.

  On that particular night in early August, the sky was the color of an oxidized penny and the air was deathly still. Michael answered the door because his mother was at the mall and his father and Josh were right in the middle of Jeopardy! Even a tornado advisory, had it been bleeped in bold white letters across the bottom of the screen, would not have interrupted their game.

  Michael knew the two men who stared back at him through the screen door. The younger, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, was Doug Boyle. He had been with the police force for only a year. Michael and his friends had nicknamed him the Hangman because he made his reputation catching kids who were drinking in the park, then booking them. Sometimes he waited, patient as a cat, in alleyways between the shops in town so that he could nail kids for speeding down Main Street.

  The older man, a man about Michael’s father’s age, wearing khaki slacks and a madras shirt, was Ralph Healey. He’d been a sergeant on the police force as long as Michael could remember.

  At the sight of them, Michael’s body grew rigid. He stared at the two men as if they had just announced their plans to torch the MacKenzie house and everyone in it.

  “We need to ask you and your family a few questions, Mike,” Sergeant Healey said. He had his head tipped slightly to the side, eyes narrowed. Michael knew he was being sized up.

  “They’re watching Jeopardy!” Michael said, acutely aware of how stupid he must sound.

  “It’ll take only a couple of minutes,” Healey assured him. “Strictly routine.”

  And because there didn’t seem to be any other course of action, Michael stepped back and let them in.

  Josh was so engrossed in his program that he didn’t even look up when they entered the living room. “Just talk loud,” he told everyone, not bothering to turn the sound down on the TV. But as soon as the men announced they were there about the Ward case, he grabbed the remote and the TV screen went blank.

  Michael thought about going up to his room and letting his father handle the police, but he was afraid it might look suspicious. Besides, Ralph Healey had said he wanted to talk to all of them. So Michael took an inconspicuous seat in the corner of the room. Josh merely stayed in the same place on the floor, except that he now faced the other direction.

  Doug Boyle made himself at home on the couch without being asked, but Sergeant Healey extended his hand, squeezing Tom MacKenzie’s in a hearty shake. “Sorry about the intrusion.”

  “Forget it. Have a seat.” Michael’s father pointed to the empty space next to Doug Boyle. “I heard you guys have been asking questions around the neighborhood.”

  Ralph Healey leaned forward, hands folded, elbows balanced on his thick knees, and nodded. “The guys from Picatinny finally zeroed in on the area where the bullet was fired from. They narrowed it down to four blocks.”

  “So you think somebody from this neighborhood shot that gun?” Tom MacKenzie rubbed the palms of his hands along his thighs.

  Healey looked grim. “Well, it sure looks that way,” he said. “That’s why we’re here. We’ve been doing the rest of the investigation on foot. Asking the folks around here a few questions.”

  Michael’s father stared down at the carpet but didn’t say anything.

  Michael was suddenly aware of every muscle in his body, as if he were readying himself for an explosive takeoff from the starting block at a track meet. All his senses were attuned to Healey’s every word, his every move. Waiting.

  Ralph Healey had rough red hands. He kept them folded, fingers locked, as if he were about to pray. Michael found the image disturbing. “I guess you’ve been following the case in the papers,” Healey said to Michael’s father.

  “Everyone in town has,” Josh volunteered. “I mean, man, this is so cool. A murder right here in Briarwood.” Then he looked over his shoulder at Michael and gave him a sly grin, hinting that he knew something. Michael wanted to punch his lights out. Meanwhile the three men were staring down at Josh as if he had just surfaced from somewhere beneath the carpet.

  Tom MacKenzie glared at Josh. “I hardly think someone dying, especially the way Charlie Ward did, could be described as cool.”

  Watching his father and brother, Michael was suddenly aware that his father had not looked his way even once since the police had entered the room. It was as if he weren’t even there. Such behavior was so out of character for his father that Michael began to wonder if he suspected something.

  “You guys have any ideas about what kind of gun it was?” Tom MacKenzie asked, turning his attention back to the two men.

  When Healey didn’t say anything, Doug Boyle slid his wide backside forward on the couch, as if he’d just decided to be part of the investigation. “We can’t give out that information,” he said.

  “We’re just asking people if they have any handguns or rifles in their houses or if they know of anybody in the neighborhood who does.” Ralph Healey parted his hands apologetically. “It’s nasty business, asking people to point fingers. But if you know of anybody …”

  “A lot of people around here have rifles,” Tom MacKenzie said. “I don’t know about handguns.” He frowned, looking skeptical. “I’ve got two rifles of my own.” Then he cocked his head toward Michael. “And Mike’s got an old .45-70 Winchester his grandfather gave him.”

  Michael’s heart raced uncontrollably. A light sheen of sweat appeared on his upper lip and forehead. He was sure someone would notice.

  Ralph Healey eased his body back into the couch, as if he could relax now that he’d gotten what he’d come for. He sighed and looked toward the picture window. “I’ll need to see those rifles,” he said. Then added, “Nothing personal. We have to inspect everyone’s guns.”

  Michael watched as his father stood up, hands in pockets. He could tell his father had been caught off guard by the sergeant’s request. Then he turned to Michael for the first time since the police had shown up. “Better go get the Winchester,” he said.

  Maybe it was something about the way his father said this, but in that single moment Michael realized with horror that his father had at least considered the possibility that the shot had come from his own house.

  Michael licked his lips. “It’s not here,” he said, surprised by the evenness of his own voice.

  His father stared back at him, hands still in his pockets. He shook his head as if he hadn’t heard right. “Where is it?”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Michael said, “At Joe’s.”

  His father continued shaking his head. He seemed bewildered. “What’s it doing at Joe’s?”

  Michael kept his eyes on his father’s face. He was afraid that if he looked away, the gesture would scream his guilt. He shrugged as casually as he could, although the muscles in his shoulders and neck ached with tension. “I loaned it to him.”

  Tom MacKenzie yanked a hand from his pocket and jerked his thumb in the direction of the cordless phone. “Well, call him and tell him to get it over here.”

  Michael could see that his father was upset. He couldn’t be sure if it was only because his son had loaned out the rifle or because he sensed something else. Michael picked up the phone and dialed Joe Sadowski’s number. He wasn’t worried. He knew Joe was at work. All he’d have to do was leave a message. But to his horror, Joe answered.

  “I thought you’d be at work,” Michael said, forgetting the others who stood only a few feet away.

  “I got fired.”

  Michael knew he should ask him what happened, but this was not the time. Somehow he had to pull this thing off. And he had to make Joe play along. “Listen, I need my rifle back.”

  The silence lasted so long he was afraid Joe had hung up. “What in—? Man, I don’t have your rifle.”

  “Oh, man, you’re kidding, right? Why didn’t you tell
me before?” Michael said. “My dad’s gonna be pissed.”

  “About what? I don’t have your goddamn rifle.” Joe drew a deep breath. “Man, you’re losing it. You’re really losing it.”

  “Jesus, they stole it right out of the car?” The desperation in Michael’s voice was convincing. He was desperate. But not for the reasons the men standing behind him in the living room believed.

  “Tell him to find the damn gun and get over here,” Tom MacKenzie said loudly. “Now!”

  “Was that your old man?” Joe asked. “He’s standing right there? What the—?”

  Michael looked over at his father. “He can’t, Dad. It was stolen.”

  Tom MacKenzie raked his fingers through his hair. “Stolen? Who the hell stole it?”

  “He doesn’t know. It was in the backseat of his car. Somebody broke in, took his CD player and the rifle.”

  Ralph Healey took a step forward, coming within a foot of Michael. “Did he file a report?”

  “Who was that?” Joe said from the other end of the phone. “That wasn’t your dad.”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Healey,” Michael said. Then to Joe, “Did you notify the police?”

  “The cops are there? Oh, man. Oh, man, we’re screwed.”

  Michael kept his gaze steady as he looked at Healey. “He says it just happened last night. He hasn’t had a chance to file a report yet.”

  “Mike?” Joe’s voice was barely audible.

  “Yeah?”

  “Meet me at the park in an hour.” Then he hung up.

  Michael pushed the Off button on the phone and laid it carefully on the table. “I can’t believe he didn’t tell me before now,” he said.

  “That Winchester belonged to your grandfather when he was a boy,” his father said. Michael could see he was angry.